The Mongoliad: Book Three tfs-3

by Neal Stephenson

  The forest had gotten thicker, the trees bristling with densely packed branches. He stopped beside a wide alder with a generous shroud of thick branches. The owl falls upon its prey from above, he thought, mentally charting a path up through the branches of the tree. The hare doesn’t see the owl until it is too late.

  He draped his bow around his neck so that it lay close to his chest. Branches poked at his face as he began to climb, and his heart leaped into his throat when one branch snapped as he put his weight on it. He looked down once, and his head started to swim as he saw how far off the ground he was, but he tamped his fear down and kept going. He paused once more, balancing on one foot, to hack at a relatively straight branch with his knife. Finally, he found a pair of thick branches that would work as a perch, and he steadied himself against the rough trunk.

  He held his arm out, measuring the length of the branch he had cut. Satisfied that it was both long and straight enough, he trimmed it down and then carefully set about stripping off the bark. There were a few tiny buds, and he cut them back, smoothing out the shaft with delicate strokes of his knife. Once all the knobs and burrs were gone, he whittled one end to as fine a point as possible, and then he cut a deep notch in the other end. The last step was to peel back the soft wood on either side of the notch so that he could create makeshift fletching from leaves stuffed under the flaps.

  It wouldn’t fly very far and, judging by the gentle curve he hadn’t been able to work out in the shaft, it would pull to the right. But it was an arrow nonetheless.

  Settling in to wait, he laid his rough arrow across his bow and kept his right fingers loosely curled around the leafy end. He kept his breathing shallow and measured, ignoring as best he could the cramps and aches that came from holding one position too long. The branch on which he was standing was narrower than his feet, and he couldn’t shift his footing too much without danger of slipping. He watched the landscape below, constantly scanning for some sign of his prey. I am a patient owl.

  The hare came.

  Down below, Munokhoi stole through the forest. He didn’t step on a single branch, and he eased through the brush more readily and silently than the wind. His bow was held ready, and Gansukh couldn’t tell if he was still carrying the Chinese fire thrower. Munokhoi’s head swung back and forth, his eyes taking in every brush and branch, but he never looked up.

  Gansukh drew his bow back slowly, cringing at the slightest creak of the wood. Munokhoi was going to pass on his right, and the best shot would be when the ex-Torguud captain was abreast of him, presenting his own right side to Gansukh. He could take the shot now, but the range was farther than he trusted his ready-made arrow. He had to wait. He held his breath and aimed, feeling the bow become an extension of his body.

  As Munokhoi passed Gansukh’s tree, he paused, his head swiveling back and forth. His brow furrowed slightly as if he sensed something out of place in the wood.

  Gansukh released his pent-up breath, his fingers opening. His bow sang, and there was a flutter of leaves.

  Munokhoi took a step back, and looked down at the shaft of fresh wood protruding from his chest. Shock registered on his face for a moment before he toppled to the ground, disappearing from Gansukh’s view

  Gansukh let out a whoop of elation as he half clambered, half fell down the tree. The hunt wasn’t over yet, though. He had to be sure Munokhoi was dead. He doubted his arrow had been fatal. He had to get close and slit his throat. Leave nothing to chance.

  Munokhoi lay on his back, blood spattered across his jacket and the branches of a nearby bush. He stared up at the panoply of the forest, and his face was contorted in a grimace. Gansukh’s arrow was imbedded in the right side of his chest, sticking nearly straight up.

  Gansukh approached cautiously. While Munokhoi seemed dead, his right hand lay concealed beneath his leg. Such positioning could be a coincidence. It could also be a trap.

  Trying to keep as much distance as possible, Gansukh stooped over Munokhoi’s body to reach for the arrow. If Munokhoi was only feigning death, he would react when the arrow was pulled out. Gansukh clutched his knife tightly as he leaned over his fallen foe.

  Munokhoi let out a blood-curdling scream as Gansukh yanked the arrow out. The ex-Torguud captain sat upright, his hand-holding a dagger-shooting out from behind his leg. Even though he had expected such a surprise, Gansukh seized up in terror, as though he were facing not a mortal man but an evil spirit. Munokhoi’s dagger tangled in Gansukh’s half-tied sash, and he slapped his left hand down, trying to grab Munokhoi’s wrist. He made contact, stopping the thrust, and as he started a tug-of-war his feet were swept out from under him as Munokhoi twisted on the ground.

  He landed on his back with a thud, his knife slipping out of his grip, and Munokhoi rolled atop him, pinning his right arm to the ground with a knee. Blood dripped from the wound in Munokhoi’s chest, dotting Gansukh’s jacket. Munokhoi spat in Gansukh’s face, his breath heavy with the stink of airag. “You are weak,” he growled. Gansukh still had a hold on Munokhoi’s wrist, and he held Munokhoi off, barely. The dagger inched closer to his throat.

  Gansukh bucked his hips, trying to throw Munokhoi off balance, and when that failed, he tried to kick his leg up high enough to hit Munokhoi in the back of the head, but the ex-captain was leaning too far forward, bearing down with all of his weight. Gansukh bucked again, but this time he tried to extricate his right hand from beneath Munokhoi’s knee. He managed to pull his arm free, without his own knife, but an empty hand was good enough. He dug his fingers into Munokhoi’s jacket, searching for the bloody arrow wound with his thumb.

  Munokhoi howled as Gansukh ground his thumb into the open wound. Gansukh bucked again, and Munokhoi’s weight lessened on his chest. Gansukh heaved, rolling onto his side, finally throwing Munokhoi off.

  He scrambled for his knife, found it, and then lunged after Munokhoi. As Gansukh charged, Munokhoi braced his hands against the ground and lashed out with a foot, but Gansukh twisted his body enough so that the foot struck him on the shoulder instead of the face. He grabbed at the leg, shoving it to one side so that he could more readily stab at the other man’s stomach with his knife.

  Munokhoi brought his other leg up, attempting to trap Gansukh between his thighs. He batted Gansukh’s outstretched hand aside, and as the pair collapsed into a heap of tangled limbs, he began to squeeze with his legs.

  Gansukh struggled to free himself. Munokhoi’s legs were constricting his range of motion-one of his arms was pinned at his side-and he was going to have trouble defending himself from Munokhoi’s blade. Gansukh lashed out blindly with his knife, feeling the blade cut fabric and flesh. Munokhoi grunted, and his legs loosened. As Gansukh scrambled out of Munokhoi’s grip, he kept slashing with his blade. Munokhoi began kicking, and Gansukh retreated before one of the other man’s boots connected with his face. There was blood on his knife and on his hand.

  Munokhoi rolled away too, using the motion to propel himself into a crouch and from there to an upright position. He favored his left leg, and there was a bright wash of blood running down the side of his pants. Munokhoi’s gaze was charged with feral rage, his mouth contorted into a savage grimace. He stood ready to fight, oblivious to the wounds he had received.

  Gansukh had seen this blindness to injury before. Men who refused to lie down and die, no matter how many arrows stuck out of their bodies or how many times they had been stabbed or cut. He had even heard of a man who continued to fight with a severed arm until his heart had pumped nearly all of the blood out of his body.

  He wasn’t surprised that Munokhoi would be filled with this invincible bloodlust. In fact, he was prepared to call upon it himself. After everything, Munokhoi was not going to walk out of the forest. Gansukh was going to be the survivor of this fight. “You are nothing,” he hissed. “I will leave your corpse for the scavengers.”

  Munokhoi’s response was a snarl of raw hatred and a lightning-fast lunge. Gansukh darted to the side, staying away from Mun
okhoi’s knife and keeping to the other man’s wounded side, but Munokhoi grabbed his left arm and tried to pull him close. He slashed at Munokhoi’s neck with his knife, and Munokhoi tumbled forward, shoving his shoulder. He stepped back, stumbling slightly, and Munokhoi slipped behind him, making ready to slit his throat like a sheep.

  Gansukh contorted his body, trapping Munokhoi’s arm with his own. They were locked together now, each straining to overpower the other. Whoever lost control first would lose his life. Their faces reddened with anger and effort as they twisted in a macabre dance, trying to break each other’s hold. Trying to drive their knives deep into flesh. They were evenly matched, unable to gain the advantage while keeping the other’s knife at bay. Munokhoi slipped his arm over Gansukh’s wrist, attempting an arm lock, and Gansukh wriggled free and nearly managed to throw Munokhoi in return.

  Munokhoi recovered and stabbed at Gansukh’s side, but there wasn’t enough speed or force to his blow, and Gansukh was able to stop the blow by grabbing Munokhoi’s wrist and pushing his hand away. Growling with frustration, Munokhoi hurled himself forward, thrusting with his chest. He snapped at Gansukh’s cheek with his teeth. Gansukh pulled his head back, and Munokhoi lurched farther up his chest, still straining to bite. He latched onto Gansukh’s ear, grinding his jaws together. He shook his head back and forth, like a dog worrying a piece of raw meat.

  Gansukh felt blood flowing down his neck. He wanted to jerk his head away, but he knew if he did it would only increase Munokhoi’s blood rage. But letting Munokhoi gnaw on his flesh wasn’t helping either. He twisted his body, trying to slip his shoulder against Munokhoi’s chest, and he felt Munokhoi’s grip loosen on his right wrist.

  The hand holding the knife.

  Gansukh jerked his hand up, wrenching his wrist free of Munokhoi’s grasp, and he drove his blade swift and deep into Munokhoi’s neck.

  Munokhoi shivered and jerked his head back. His jaw had locked, and he tore a piece of Gansukh’s earlobe free. Gansukh retaliated by yanking his blade forward and then pulling it back, tearing a deep slash across Munokhoi’s throat. Munokhoi started to choke, and when he spat the piece of Gansukh’s ear out, blood spattered from his mouth.

  Gansukh tried to shove him away, but Munokhoi, eyes bright with spite, clung to him like a leech as he staggered and fell. Munokhoi coughed up a gout of blood when Gansukh landed on top of him, and he weakly tried to fend off Gansukh’s blade. Gansukh stabbed Munokhoi again and again-in the chest, in the neck. Blood flowed freely from the copious wounds, and Munokhoi’s motions became more and more feeble. His skin paled, his mouth went slack, and finally his eyes lost their mad gleam. Only when he no longer showed any reaction to being stabbed did Gansukh finally stop. Leaving his knife imbedded in Munokhoi’s chest, Gansukh slid off the dead body and crawled a short distance away. Bent over, he threw up again and again until the bloodlust was purged from his being.

  At last the bloody work was done.

  Late in the afternoon, the hunting party rested by a stream that gurgled happily along a rock-strewn course. The horses drank their fill and quietly nosed around, cropping the tender grasses that grew along the bank. Ogedei had been only too happy to get out of his saddle, and he moved a little stiffly as he walked back and forth along the river’s track.

  Namkhai took the opportunity of this rest to check on his men, and he walked among them, making small talk and inquiring of what they had seen (or hadn’t, in the case of bear sign). Of all the host, only the old rider-Alchiq-didn’t dismount. He stayed in his saddle, quietly chewing on a piece of salted meat.

  “Where’s Gansukh?” Namkhai asked.

  Alchiq nodded past Namkhai’s shoulder, his expression unchanging, his mouth moving slowly around the jerky.

  Namkhai turned and spotted Gansukh emerging from the forest. Ogedei’s young pony raised a hand in greeting when he saw Namkhai looking at him, and he angled his horse toward the two men. “Hai, Namkhai,” he said.

  “Hai, Gansukh,” Namkhai said. “You fell behind.” He looked around and spotted the short shaman and his equally tiny pony. “Even the old wizard got here before you.”

  “I saw a squirrel,” Gansukh offered as an explanation.

  Namkhai stared at the young rider, considering what he saw. Gansukh sat stiffly in his saddle, and his clothing was rumpled and ill fitting. The left side of his face was turned away, a posture that seemed forced and awkward-as if he were hiding something from Namkhai’s view. Though he seemed both dazed and exhausted, his face was at ease, with a tiny satisfied smile. There was a blotch on his neck, a dark stain that hadn’t been completely wiped away.

  “It was a very big squirrel,” he said in response to Namkhai’s quizzical eyebrow.

  Namkhai nodded thoughtfully as he let his gaze roam over Gansukh’s mount. It was a darker color than he remembered, and both the saddle and the cloak bound to the cantle were much finer and less travel-stained than he would expect of a horse rider like Gansukh. “I do not like squirrels,” he said finally.

  Alchiq chuckled, and then spat a chewed bit of meat on the ground. “Who does?” he said innocently. “Nasty rodents. That one will not be missed.”

  Namkhai laughed. “No,” he said. “Not in the slightest.” He bowed his head to Gansukh once more. “That is a beautiful horse,” he said. “I suspect such an animal would cost… fifty cows or so. A suitable payment for outstanding debts, don’t you think?”

  Gansukh patted the horse’s neck. “Suitable enough,” he said. “I am satisfied.”

  “As am I,” Namkhai said.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Et Factum Est Ita

  And thus it was done.

  When the votes were tallied, the Cardinals were in agreement. Castiglione would be their new Pope, and the very result Fieschi had been fighting against the last few days had, ironically, become the solution to his troubles. Castiglione would not be Pope long enough to unduly influence the Church.

  It was not an optimal solution, but it was one that would allow him time to lay a more solid foundation for the next election. When they could dispense with the nonsense of worrying about whether the Holy Roman Emperor could influence the election in any way.

  There was still the minor annoyance of what to do about Father Rodrigo should he resurface, but, as Capocci had pointed out, in several days it would no longer matter. All of the Cardinals looked eager to put the grievous error of their first vote behind them. Da Capua, in fact, had such a permanent crease in his forehead that Fieschi suspected that he would, within the year, retire to a monastery and live out his days, staring at the walls and plucking his lyre.

  De Segni and Capocci took responsibility for informing the few priests, bishops, and lay servants necessary to ensure cooperation in the Papal mummery, as Capocci called it.

  Fieschi went outside, squinting in the midday glare, and began to cross the broad central meadow of the Vatican compound toward the Castel Sant’Angelo. The board was decent there, compared to the miserly rations served from the makeshift kitchens outside Saint Peter’s.

  He was nearly to the castle when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned quickly, to see a young messenger approaching at a run. “Cardinal Fieschi!” the young man cried as he arrived. “I was told you are Cardinal Fieschi?”

  “I am,” he said, with a frown of caution.

  “I have a message for you from His Majesty, Emperor Frederick,” the young man said, bowing while gasping for breath. “I am to wait for your response before returning.”

  He handed Fieschi a small piece of parchment that had been folded into thirds and sealed with the imperial eagle. Intrigued, Fieschi broke the seal, unfolded the parchment, and read.

  The note was short and to the point, written in Frederick’s own scrawl. Do come for a visit soon, dear Sinibaldo. There is a delicate matter that I wish to discuss.

  The missing priest, he thought, interpreting Frederick’s message. He didn’t get very far. He should have suspected that a
madman wandering around the countryside would have been found by the Emperor’s men. He glanced up at the dome of the basilica. Did it matter that the Emperor had the missing priest? he wondered, and then he smiled as an idea occurred to him. If the priest was mad, and he could convince the Emperor that this madness was part of a larger conspiracy, then perhaps he could redirect Frederick’s attention elsewhere.

  The heavy wooden door was thrown open so forcefully it bounced from its hinges and almost ricocheted back at Cardinal Fieschi.

  “I know where he is,” he gloated.

  “Who?” Lena asked as if she didn’t know who the Cardinal was talking about.

  “Your young friend will be with him,” Fieschi said, ignoring Lena’s question. He pointed at Ocyrhoe. “You will be coming with me,” he said.

  “I will?” Ocyrhoe squeaked.

  “Why are you taking the child?” Lena protested stridently. In her head, Ocyrhoe heard an echo of Lena’s earlier words. You see? What you need will be offered. Though she could not see how being remanded to the angry Cardinal was going to help her escape from Rome.

  “Frederick has sent me a message, asking for a meeting. He has the mad priest and I suspect he wants to ransom him back to me. I am not so foolish as to go alone,” Fieschi sneered. “Nor am I going to be caught in a political trap. The girl will help me convince Father Rodrigo that Frederick is not his friend.”

  “And if she doesn’t?” Lena asked.

  Fieschi gave Lena a feral grin. “I will still have you, here, under my guard. If Frederick wishes to negotiate the return of the priest, I will have something he will want to negotiate for.”

  “And the girl wouldn’t be more useful to you here as your hostage?” Lena asked.

  “In the last few days,” Fieschi snapped, “this child has caused me more headaches than Robert of Somercotes-”